


Private Lessons

by DeansDirtyLittleSecret



Series: Professor Dean Winchester AU [9]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Explicit Language, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fluff, Oral Sex, Professor Dean Winchester, Reader-Insert, Smut, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-26
Updated: 2015-08-26
Packaged: 2018-04-17 07:37:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,900
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4658082
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DeansDirtyLittleSecret/pseuds/DeansDirtyLittleSecret
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Professor Winchester tutors the reader. Sort of.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Private Lessons

You slumped against the back of the couch in Dean’s office, irritation running rampant through you. You closed your eyes and tried not to scream.

“What’s wrong, Y/N?” Dean asked quietly.

“Professor Singer is the single most boring human being I have ever met in my short, young life,” you replied. “I swear to God, I need five cups of coffee just to get through his class.” You sighed heavily. “I’m never going to pass that class. He’s impossible, his assignments are ridiculously hard, and I don’t think he has a clue what he’s doing.”

Dean sat down next to you, his arm slung over the back of the couch, his body turned toward yours. His fingers rubbed at the tense muscles in your neck.

“He’s a tenured professor,” he said soothingly.

“Doesn’t mean he knows what the hell he’s doing,” you mumbled. You leaned your head back, sighing as Dean’s fingers worked at the knots where your shoulders met your neck.

“Do you need help with something?” he asked.

“You’re not my professor anymore, remember?” you grumbled. You’d been more than happy to transfer out of Dean’s class at the behest of the university president, especially since it meant the two of you could continue to date. But you hadn’t realized you were going to get transferred into Singer’s class. He was notorious for being gruff and hard to deal with. Not to mention he loved to refer to his students as idjits.

“No, I’m not,” Dean chuckled. “But I’m still a professor, one that just so happens to teach the same subject matter as Bob. I’ll tutor you, help you get through his class.”

You shook your head. “But Mr. Shurley said -”

“They’ll be private lessons,” Dean said, his voice dipping a little bit lower, a hint of something more in it. His fingers stopped rubbing the back of your neck and slid up into your hair, tipping your head back and leaning over you, a tiny knowing smirk on his lips. He kissed you, just a bare brush of his lips over yours, his beard scratching at your chin. But it was enough, enough to make you want to cross your legs and rub your thighs together, anything to appease the ache building in the pit of your stomach. “Very private lessons,” he growled.

“Professor Winchester,” you breathed.

Dean buried his face against your neck, his fingers twisted in the collar of your shirt, pulling it aside so he could suck hungrily at the edge of your collarbone. “Hmm,” he sighed, sliding his arm around your back, tugging you closer, his other hand between your legs, cupping you, pulling your hips up so he could rock you into his hand.

You gasped, unashamedly squirming, holding his hand in place, grinding against it. The orgasm hit you unexpectedly, rushing through you, slamming into you like a goddamn freight train, your back arching, one hand desperately scrambling for purchase on Dean’s arm, the other holding the edge of the couch as you succumbed to the pleasure overwhelming you.

You reached for Dean as you came down, wanting, as always, to return the favor, but he was kissing your neck at the same time as he was pushing himself off of his ugly plaid couch. You moaned in protest as he stood up.

“Stop griping,” he laughed. “Bring your stuff over tonight, I’ll help you.” He leaned over and pressed a hard kiss to your lips. “I have a meeting. Get your ass out of my office, before my new teaching assistant wanders in and he sees you all sex-rumpled and gorgeous.” Another kiss, this one lingering just a little longer. “I’ll see you later.” The last kiss was good, all tongue and warm breath, a promise. “I love you, Y/N.”

He was out the door before your “I love you, too,” was even out of your mouth. You’d have to show him later.

* * *

You arrived at Dean’s much later than you’d planned, thanks to the latest job interview you’d had. You’d been so distracted and dealt with so much this school year that you’d put job hunting on the back burner, but your savings was nearly depleted, so you’d starting putting in applications all over town. The most recent interview had been at a little coffee shop just off campus. They needed a barista a few nights a week, so you’d applied. The interview had gone well and the owner, Meg, had promised to get back to you as soon as possible.

The Impala was in the driveway when you passed the front of Dean’s house on your way to park around the block, near the park. You were still keeping your relationship quiet, being discreet as possible, despite having a stamp of approval from the university president. It was a condition put in place so Dean could keep his job, one you had no problem agreeing to. So you left your car near the park and walked to Dean’s house, going in through the back yard. And even though you’d been dating the professor for a couple of months now, you couldn’t bring yourself to just barge through his back door, not when he was home anyway. You knocked quietly and waited.

He yanked the door open a few seconds later, a slightly pinched and irritated look on his face. He was barefoot, wearing basketball shorts and a plain black t-shirt. “How many times have I told you that you don’t have to knock? For Christ’s sake, you have a key.”

You shrugged apologetically. “I’m sorry, but it’s your house and I just -”

Dean cut you off with a sweet kiss, pulling you into his arms and hugging you to his chest. “Where have you been?”

“Job interview,” you sighed. “At that little place by school, The Percolator.”

“The coffee place?” he asked, pulling you deeper into the house.

You nodded, following him inside, admiring his muscular legs in the shorts he was wearing and the way his t-shirt was tight in all the right places. You dropped your jacket on the chair in the corner and kicked off your shoes by the fireplace, before dropping into “your spot” on the couch, your backpack in your lap. You unzipped it and pulled out your book and Professor Singer’s latest assignment. You held it out to Dean.

“You said you’d help me,” you grinned.

Dean smiled at you and took the papers from your hand. He leaned back, reading over the assignment. You couldn’t help but laugh at the almost offended expression on his face.

“Well?” you said after a couple of minutes.

“This man calls his students idjits?” Dean sighed. “This assignment is crap. This is graduate level  stuff, not stuff you should be doing in your fourth year of college. Christ.” He rubbed his hand over the back of his neck. “Alright, let’s see what we can do with it.”

The next hour was spent working on your paper, Dean guiding you, pointing you in the right direction, not outright giving you the answers, but teaching you like any good teacher would.

Eventually, you slammed your book closed, tired of looking at it. You tossed it to the table and dropped your backpack to the floor. “I’m done,” you mumbled. “I’ve had enough for one night. It’s not due until next week. I’ll finish it later.”

You turned to look at Dean, sprawled out at the other end of the couch, his black rimmed reading glasses on, a stack of papers and a red pen in his hand. He glanced over the top of his glasses at you, pulled them off, then set them, his papers and his pen on the table next to your book. He smiled at you, gesturing for you to join him. You crawled over the couch until you were kneeling between his knees, your hands on his thighs.

“Thank you for your help,” you murmured.

Dean nodded, watching you as you pushed his shirt up and leaned over to place a kiss on his stomach, right beneath his belly button. He drew in a sharp breath, his stomach rising and falling, the soft hairs trailing into the waistband of his shorts tickling your cheek. You leaned your forehead against his stomach, laying across his legs, and hooked your thumbs in the shorts, pulling them down several inches. You pressed kisses to the newly exposed skin, rubbing your nose against him, inhaling his now familiar scent. Another couple of inches, more kisses, and Dean was breathing heavily, his cock hardening against the side of your neck as you explored his torso with your mouth.

Dean’s legs fell open and his head dropped against the arm of the couch, a quiet sigh slipping past his lips as you pulled his shorts and boxer briefs down past his hips and over his ass. His cock lay hard and thick against his stomach. You ran your tongue up its length, Dean’s hips jerking at your touch. He moaned your name, his fingers in your hair, tightening minutely when you took him in your mouth.

You sucked the tip of his hard shaft into your mouth and swirled your tongue around the head, your fingers tight around the base. It only took a few minutes before Dean was moaning and bucking his hips, begging for more.

You released him, licking him slowly, before rising to your feet and stripping off your clothes, Dean’s eyes never leaving yours. He sat up, grinning as you straddled him, sinking slowly onto his cock, taking him in just an inch at a time, allowing yourself time to adjust. Once he was fully seated inside you, you wrapped your arms around his neck, holding yourself against him as you rocked forward. His hand slipped between your bodies, finding your desire swollen clit, teasing it as he thrust into you, your bodies unbelievably close, completely connected, two halves of one whole.

Dean braced his feet on the floor, slamming into you, his cock burying itself in your pussy with every thrust. He wrapped his arms around your waist, pulling you down onto him, panting and gasping, pumping his hips at a maddening pace.

“Oh god,” you moaned. “Jesus, Dean, right there baby, right there.” Your clit was rubbing deliciously against his stomach and his cock was brushing over your sweet spot with each thrust. You felt it coming, the orgasm building and building deep inside you, your walls clenching around Dean as it hit, your fingers digging long red welts in his back as you rode it out.

His hands tightened on your hips, holding you tight he came, his face buried between your breasts. He relaxed against the back of the couch, pulling you into a mind blowing, sensual kiss, his hands running over your body, pushing right back to the cusp of another orgasm. He rocked his hips the tiniest bit and to your surprise, you came again, a squeal of surprise leaving your mouth.

Dean threw his head back, laughing. You punched him lightly on the shoulder, a smile on your face. You wrapped your arms around him and buried your face against his neck.

“Maybe one of these days we’ll make it off the couch and upstairs,” he chuckled.

“I don’t know, Professor Winchester,” you replied. “I kind of like your couch. Even the ugly plaid one.”


End file.
